


Dance with the Devil

by MrsMollyH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Boy King of Hell Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Hand Jobs, Hell, Light BDSM, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Rough Sex, Spanking, Torture of Non-Primary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 15:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam makes the decision to forever change his place in history to become the Boy King of Hell, Dean goes looking for him and isn’t so sure he likes what he finds. The world Sam controls is darker than one Dean has ever known. Sam must work to convince him to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance with the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my incredible artist [liliaeth](http://liliaeth.livejournal.com) for her fantastic and haunting art, which can be found [here](http://liliaeth.livejournal.com/474152.html). Without your beautiful art, I would never have been able to create this!
> 
> A giant round of applause goes to [Michelle (aka SoullessBoyKing)](http://soullessboyking.tumblr.com) over at Tumblr for her fantastic beta skills. Thank you for pushing me to be better and to work harder.
> 
> Wondering what _Der Stadt Friedhof_ looks like? Go [here](http://image2.findagrave.com/photos/2012/107/CEM422870_133469352573.jpg).

After Cold Oak, where Sam Winchester went up against Alistair and barely survived his scrape with Jake Talley and that knife to the back, Sam retreats with his brother to Bobby’s, quiet and reserved. As time goes by, Dean finds Sam looking for himself in the bottom of bottles, saving the empties like so many fallen soldiers. He places the glass bottles in a line in the window sill and makes the bedroom shine in half-hearted attempts at stained glass, light though brown and green and clear bottles painting the room in an odd sort of camouflage. It’s as if Sam is building himself a cathedral, a place to call sanctuary.

There are nights Dean hears Sam leave the room they share; late, late nights where the only light is the belly of moon hung low in the sky like a forgotten bulb in a shed. Sam’s long legs take him down the stairs, the bottom of his jeans brushing against the wood steps under the heels of his bare feet. Dean hears him go, the third step from the top whining at Sam’s great weight, his nearly six-and-a-half foot heft, hears him pulling on his boots when he reaches the base of the stairs. Dean doesn’t know where Sam goes when he does, but he always wakes when Sam returns in the deep dark before the sun considers rising, attempting to be quiet, but never well enough to get past his older brother. Dean never says anything when he returns, just holds his breath until Sam shucks down the covers of his own bed and curls up to sleep, hard and still until the light of morning cuts a path along the floor of the room.

Months pass like this, with Dean offering Sam cases, all bright green-eyed hope and excitement, and Sam turning him down. Sam doesn’t eat much, drinks more, sleeps less. He continues to leave most nights, returning in the velvet black of pre-dawn. It’s December when Sam leaves with the Impala and without Dean.

***

Sam drives almost due south, the Impala purring its way across state lines. What should be a sixteen hour drive becomes twelve. He does not eat. He does not rest. He does not stop. The needle of the speedometer remains at eighty or above, the ferocious roar of the engine Sam’s only music. The sun rises and sets as he drives. It isn’t until Sam reaches a small town called Fredericksburg, Texas, that he stops. The town is too small for light pollution, so there’s nothing but sky shouldering its way across December-dead ground and cedar trees. From horizon to horizon it’s dark, the sky like pitch and littered with stars bright white like they’re punched out of the sky. Guided by the headlights of the Impala and the roar of its engine, Sam makes his way to _Der Stadt Friedhof_ , the two-century old cemetery that resides in the small Texas town. Just inside the wrought-iron arch that marks the cemetery entrance, Sam stops under the moonlight. There is no wind, but the still air is frigid and heavy, a pressing weight against Sam’s skin, the cold leeching into his flesh and filling his blood.

Sam thinks of Jess, with her blonde hair and the way it should have reminded him of flames before it became flames. He thinks of how he couldn’t save her, the blood that touched his face before he had watched the woman he had loved die. Sam thinks about his father, all Marine and overly-obsessed, but full of love for Mary and his sons. He thinks of how he couldn’t save him, how he had always been a disappointment to him with his books and studies over knives, guns, and sigils.

This is the only sure bet Sam’s ever had beside his brother. This future is the only one he can count on and the only one he can allow himself to accept.

It’s then, under the wide shoulders of the Texas hill country where Sam Winchester makes his decision. It is there, among the bones of the first Texan killed in World War One, among the dust of the long-dead, that Sam Winchester takes his place as the King of Hell.

***

Dean and Bobby find the Impala one morning about two weeks after Sam abandons it in Texas, having tracked him all the way from North Dakota at a fever pitch. The Impala is parked behind a thicket of old, nearly-dead cedar trees and mesquite, not truly hidden.

“Why would he come here?” Dean asks Bobby. Bobby offers a labored sigh, and then: “Oh, hell, son, why do you think?” Bobby bites it out.

“You really think he’d—?” Dean doesn’t want to believe it. Not after Cold Oak. Not after he thought Sam had given up the thought of bending to the will of demons. He should have known, he thinks, the nighttime absences, the sneaking around. Dean puts his hands to his forehead, balls them into fists. 

“Fuck.” It’s angry and clipped.

Bobby puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and turns to get back into his truck. Dean lets his hands drop to his sides. They feel heavy, like the marrow of his bones is leaden. Absently, he hears the truck door slam, a rusted-out creak. 

Under the December sun, Dean kicks at the dirt with his boot, lifting a puff of dust and dirt and cedar six inches from the ground. The sky over his head is the bright blue of a marble and the breeze is a whisper against his cheeks. Defeated, he makes his way to the Impala. He squeezes into the driver’s side, which is difficult so close to a large cedar tree. Dean leans over and pops open the glove compartment. The keys are there, nestled in the corner, just as he knew they would be. Sam was nothing if not consistent with things like that. Dean does his best not to think about just how well he knows his brother. How much he has missed him.

Dean puts the key in the ignition, hits the clutch and turns the key, and the Impala attempts to turn over, but won’t.

“Hey there, Dean.” The voice is behind him, and Dean has pulled his gun and swiveled to face it before a second has passed. In the backseat is a pretty petite brunette with full lips and eyes like newly-polished onyx.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean asks, and he pulls back the hammer on the Taurus. The demon in the back seat offers him a wide grin. She’s lean in a fitted black leather jacket and an admirably low cut black tank top. The demon crosses her narrow arms over her chest and leans back in the Impala’s bench seat.

“Name’s Ruby. I happen to be the Colonel in a very special army. The king is someone you might happen to know. Someone who would very much like to see you.”

Dean’s jaw clenches in response. “Give me one good reason not to gank your skinny ass right here, right now.” He disregards mentioning that it is a fine ass, nonetheless.

“I don’t think the King would like that all too much, Dean.” Her tone nears patronizing. “What a coup this is. Me, finding you before anyone else. There are souls on the line for this mission, Dean. Everyone had their bets on Baal, but he’s all talk. And just look at me. I beat out all of those other sons of bitches and found the King’s brother all by myself. It was easy enough you know. You love this car too much.” She runs a hand over the seat, pressing into the leather. Dean grits his teeth and Ruby laughs, musical as church bells.

“Take me to Sam,” Dean snarls. Ruby rolls her eyes.

“That’s the whole plan, Dean.” She snaps her black-polished fingers before Dean can register the fact that Bobby is really going to kill him this time.

***

They arrive immediately, and Ruby leads Dean down a long hallway. The walls are the hard anvil grey of a Kansas thunderhead, carved in brilliant filigree, not an inch left untouched. There are large wrought-iron sconces on the wall with heavy black candles burning on them, casting shadows that move like lustful bodies. There are doors at regular intervals along the hallway, sturdy dark steel structures that muffle screams, shrieks, and cries, each numbered in weighty gold roman numerals.

“Torture rooms,” Ruby explains. Dean cringes inwardly. The hall seems to go on forever before it takes a sharp left turn. As Dean makes the turn, he is met by a huge set of golden doors with images of devils, demons, and hellhounds carved into them. The candlelight makes them appear to move: fractured humanoid things that Dean is all too familiar with. 

The doors swing open and Dean walks into the biggest room he has ever seen. The ceilings soar to twenty or thirty feet, where black chandeliers hang and shine, twinkling like shards of glass on an old black road. A red carpet leads to the opposite end of the room, flanked by demons of varying rank, dressed in black uniforms and moving on combat boots that shine like oil. The whole room stills when the doors open. Atop a golden throne, relaxed and loose-limbed, is Sam, wearing a crown that looks to Dean like it’s made of the bones from human hands. Sam looks up and a smile breaks out across his face.

“I found him, Sam,” Ruby calls.

Sam’s eyes are not the mercurial hazel that Dean knows. They are the golden-yellow that Dean hoped he would never see again. Sam rises from the throne—his throne—and jogs toward his brother. Dean’s body goes stiff at the shifting yellow of Sam’s eyes, a sort of paralysis that bleeds through his bones. Sam thanks Ruby and dismisses her. She looks curiously like the proverbial cat with the cream, with her wide, tilted black eyes.

“Dean, it’s been so long.” Sam breathes. Dean avoids Sam’s eyes, discomfited.

“Sam, what the fuck are you even doing here?” Dean says, the words a low rumble. 

The entire hall stills at the statement. Clearly, Sam is not one to be questioned.

“This is my kingdom. This is my home. And you’ll be wise to remember that.” There’s a strained, angry half-smile on Sam’s face, and Sam places a hand on Dean’s leather-clad arm. “It’s time for you to be a part of it.” Dean pulls away, lifting his hands in front of him, palms out.

“Woah, man, I ‘m not fucking staying. This is Hell. As in literal Hell. It’s not exactly my prime vacation spot.”

“You’ll see, Dean. I have a room for you here. This can be our home.” Dean runs a hand through the short hair at the base of his scalp and sighs, chastened but defiant. His eyes roam the throne room, taking in the immensity of the place. There are demons coming and going, their eyes black as pitch. He can tell the soldiers from the civilians, he finds, a remnant of having a Marine father.

“I’m not staying in Hell, Sam.”

“Give it time, Dean.” Sam’s voice is firm. “I’ll have Belphegor take you to your room. It has everything you need.”

***

The room Sam has outfitted for Dean is large, with a big bed covered in a thick cocoa brown comforter and a stack of Busty Asian Beauty magazines next to it. Across from the bed is a large television with a number of Casa Erotica DVDs lined up for him. On top of a mahogany dresser are photos of their family: one from the Christmas before Sam was born, one from a fishing trip that John had taken with them when things were actually quiet one weekend, a shot of Sam with his high school diploma. Dean doesn’t know how Sam got the photos here, and he isn’t sure he wants to know. On top of a narrow console table at the door are bottles of whiskey: some Dean knows as friends—Jack, Johnnie, Jim—and some that have labels he’s never seen in his life. There’s one he particularly admires that has a red label and the image of a rather buxom woman in a pin-up style devil outfit called Eve’s Breath. Sure, it’s a bit heavy-handed, but who doesn’t love a good whiskey or a fiery woman? Dean picks up the bottle and runs his thumb over the label, then puts it back on the table. The whole place was what he should have wanted: a home, stability. He lies down on the bed and sighs heavily, puts his hands over his eyes.

His hands itch to hunt. To have purpose. His body yearns for the action, the movement, the feel of a gun in his hand or a blade to the throat of someone with whom no one else would have dared tangle. This is Hell. Dean reminds himself that Hell is not home, no matter how many shithole motels he’s stayed in, no matter how many roach-infested diners he has had to endure. The Impala is home. Bobby’s place in South Dakota is home. Hell is Hell, no matter how you slice it.

Sam, though, had seemed happy. He was relaxed for the first time Dean had seen in years. The way his body took up the entirety of throne—legs long and loose, arms supple and lithe—meant he was comfortable here. Dean focuses on Sam’s happiness like a jeweler looking at a diamond through a loupe. He falls asleep with his hands over his eyes, like his body wishes he had never seen any of this at all.

***

Dean awakes to some of the most incredible aromas he has ever known. He pokes his head out of the door to his room and is startled when a petite redheaded demon is looking up at him.

“Hey there, Dean. My name is Rachel. I’m here to help you in any way you need.” Dean’s still made uneasy by her black eyes, but she’s beautiful and he’s starving, so he does his best to work with it.

“Uh, yeah, Rachel, I’m hungry and something smells delicious.” Rachel smiles, exposing teeth as straight and white as veteran’s tombstones. 

“Follow me, I’ll take you to the dining hall.” She turns on her heel, and Dean shuts his door behind him. The incredible scents get stronger as he and the demon make their way through labyrinthian hallways that have the same carvings on them that the entryway did. On the way, Dean tells himself he’s not checking out a demon’s ass, but maybe he kind of is. They finally arrive at the dining hall, and it, like Sam’s throne room, is massive. What catches Dean’s eye, however, is the spread on the table: eggs, bacon, steaks, hamburgers, rice and potatoes, a dozen kinds of pastries, pies of sizes Dean could never have imagined.

Dean piles up two plates, one with eggs, bacon and potatoes, another with steak and asparagus and rice, and Dean eats as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks. He drinks coffee so strong and so hot that he wonders if the beans are even from a place he would be able to find on a globe. Finally, Dean finishes his meal off with a slice of pie with a filling so red it almost makes him think of blood. Almost. To his side, Rachel smirks.

“I didn’t know you liked pomegranates, Dean.”

Dean shrugs. “It was good. Where’s Sam?”

“Sam is…” Rachel pauses, and Dean can tell she’s gathering her thoughts, couching the words as best she can. “Sam is somewhat busy at the moment, but I was told that if you asked, you were to be taken to him immediately.” Dean raises an eyebrow. Rachel is obviously unnerved, but she leads him to the hallway that houses the torture rooms nonetheless. She stands to the right of the door with the heavy gold “VI” on it and gestures to the door, won’t open it herself. There are screams coming from the other side of the door that border on inhuman, shrieks that sound like they’re shredding the lungs they’re issuing from. Dean sets his jaw and opens the door.

A young woman is strapped to a huge metal frame, her arms secured above her, and her head lolling down between her shoulders in a cascade of white blonde hair. There is blood everywhere, and Dean can see her heart beating behind the exposed off-white cage of her ribs. It’s weak, he can see that much, it flutters in her chest like a moth against a window. The point at which her wrists are secured is red and swollen, bruising under her weight and turning the purple of a tornadic sky. Her right leg has been surgically opened, and Dean sees Sam working away at her kneecap, slipping a scalpel behind the fascia and twisting it away from her body, the muscles of his shoulders working under the thin white cotton of his wife beater. When it gives way, a fresh howl fills the room. Sam cups the patella in his hand, then flips it, as one would a coin.

“Sam, what in God’s name are you doing to this woman?” Dean can’t stop himself before it’s out of his mouth. Sam turns and tosses the kneecap into a bin next to the bleeding girl. There are flecks of blood and spit on the white cotton wifebeater Sam has stripped down to. The muscles of his arm work under his tan skin as he wipes off the scalpel blade.

“This,” Sam says, gesturing with the newly-silver blade, “Is not really a woman.” The blonde head lifts, and Dean sees that instead of a beautiful female face, in its place is the face of a lion. The creature’s eyes are black, and its mouth is dripping with saliva and blood, an obscene pink mess that streams from the feline mouth like ribbon. Dean grimaces.

“This is Astaroth.” Sam says, and the creature bares its teeth.

“I can’t watch you do this, Sam,” Dean turns to leave. Sam grabs him by his shoulder and turns him on his heel, forcing Dean to look him in the eyes. Dean’s chest tightens at the gold hue. This isn’t the Sam he knows.

“This is the same thing we’ve always done, Dean. How do you think this is different from dousing one of them in Holy Water? Pain is pain. At least here we know they’re not just taking some poor body for a joyride; that we’re not harming innocent people. I know what Astaroth did. I know how she did it. And I also know this is her true form. It’s foolproof, Dean. It’s better than we ever were before.” And with that, Sam blinks his eyes, and they’re hazel again. “I’m still me, Dean. I’m still the same Sam as always. You’ll be safe here, Dean. Safer than up there.”

Dean shifts his weight. “That’s not—I don’t care about being safe, Sammy.” He sighs. He knows his brother’s power here. But he’s surrounded by the toughest things they hunt, day after day, biding time with things that bargain and beg and fight and fuck in the skin of an innocent human.

Gently, Sam moves toward Dean, resting a large hand on the hard jut of his brother’s jaw. Dean shuts his eyes against the movement, but finds himself leaning into the touch. Sam’s hand is hard and calloused on his jaw, and there’s something heavy in the caress, a weight of things unsaid or overthought: it spins out in Dean’s head, those quiet times between them when they did nothing but drive across country and hill and dale, the unconsidered actions during hunts when they could toss each other ammo and neither of them ever failed to catch, the never-ending spiral of duality that binds them as brothers. Dean realizes there’s a hitch in Sam’s breath, and places his hand over Sam’s. 

Yes, he loves his brother. He would die for him, do anything for him. But this is the first time he has been so subsumed in his brother, so possessed by him that his head is heavy with thoughts that he’s never had, and he knows he never should have.

“Dean, stay with me,” Sam breathes it, barely over a mutter, and for once he can hear a plea in Sam’s voice. Dean closes his eyes, breathes, takes in the woodsy scent of his brother.

“Sam, I—“

“Don’t say you can’t.” Sam's grip on his jaw becomes more forceful, and his eyes flare golden. 

With a snap of Sam’s fingers, they’re in a huge bedroom and Sam is pushing Dean backward, hand still on his jaw, breathing hard, taking all the air from Dean’s space and pulling the breath from him.

“Stay with me, Dean.” And Sam snakes his thumb between Dean’s teeth, and suddenly Sam is pressing his lips to his older brother’s. Dean makes a startled sound, muffled by tongue and teeth and lips, but he lets go, releases, sinks into the kiss and lets his brother in, lets his mouth open so that Sam can lick his way in. Denim touches satin when Sam presses Dean all the way back, calves and thighs touching a king-size bed. Roughly, Sam removes his thumb from his brother’s open mouth.

And Dean finds he does want this, although he never knew it, but this long slide into this new unknown has him pulling his shirt over his head and going for the buckle of his belt, watching his brother’s large hands make quick work of his own clothing. Sam pulls his white wife beater over his head in one smooth motion, baring a hard, muscled chest.

Dean realizes, shudderingly, that his brother is beautiful: with hair that brushes over his ears and sculpted cheekbones, a broad, high forehead. Dean lets himself think this because he knows it’s true, knows he might have thought this before but not dared let himself acknowledge it. There’s a dangerous undercurrent in Sam’s golden eyes, and Dean wants to feel what it means.

“Get on the bed, Dean,” There’s a commanding tone to it, and Dean obeys, situating himself on all fours.

“Hands stay on the bed unless you can’t take any more,” Sam is breathing hard, and Dean hears the leather slide of his belt through denim loops, and his body stills. “And I mean any more. If I think you’re giving up too easily, you’ll know it." Dean grunts, hard, in the back of his throat, both a protest and an acknowledgement. The hard, flat slap of leather on leather has Dean pulled tight as a bowstring, arms fisted in the satin covers, back arched and tense, waiting.

“You do trust me, don’t you Dean?”

Dean nods, then bites out an affirmative when he gets no response.

The sound comes, again, flat, even: leather on leather.

“God damn it, Sammy,” it’s a growl coming from Dean, shaking and taut.

“Are you going to be good for me, Dean? Are you going to be good for your king?”

Dean goes to mouth off at the title, but Sam brings his folded belt down hard at the top of Dean’s left thigh, and Dean can only breathe hard, trying to hide the fact that it does hurt. He’s been on the wrong side of a skinwalker or two, vampires aplenty, even matched against a few rather cruel witches, but there’s something different about a leather belt in Sam’s hands.

Sam repeats the action against the right thigh, then lets the newly struck skin redden in the air. He gets into a rhythm, left, right, left right, like a march, and Dean realizes that it’s the space between where he finds himself losing his mind, the time between the hit of the leather against a thigh, the time between breaths, the times when he just doesn’t know what’s coming next. He’s hard against his stomach, his cock flushed and leaking. Touch after touch, slap after slap, Sam covers his flesh, moving up and down the backs of Dean’s thighs, and then to the hard muscle of his ass, not leaving an inch untouched, unreddened. Dean moves to lift his right hand from the covers to ask Sam to stop, but doesn’t get as far as lifting a finger. Sam knows. Sam has always known.

“You did so well for me, Dean,” The words are soothing right in Dean’s ear, and Sam lifts his hand and rubs the raw skin. “You were so good. I’m going to reward you now, okay Dean?” And Dean finds himself nodding, making small sounds, because he needs this, yes, Christ, he wants it. Dean’s head hangs loose between his shoulders, eyes on the bed, muscles relaxed, open.

There’s the quiet, muffled sound of a bottle opening, and Dean’s almost too gone to know it, eyes glassed over and forest green, his head somewhere far beyond the here and now, but also infinitely focused on every sensation and every nerve in this body.

Sam’s finger is thick as it slips inside Dean, slow, but insistent. There’s a burn of pain, but nothing like the searing shots that Dean took across his thighs and buttocks, and he relaxes, bending into his brothers touch and breathing a slow in-out. One finger becomes two, and Sam stretches Dean carefully, slowly, savoring the hunger of his brother’s hole as it swallows his fingers. With a third finger, Sam curls his digits and Dean goes stiff and bites out a hard grunt of pleasure as his brother’s fingers brushes over the most sensitive spot inside of him.

“Sam—” It’s a moan, it’s a request, open and raw, needy like Sam has never heard before.

“That’s it Dean, open up for me,” Sam situates himself behind his brother, and slowly, he pushes inside. Dean throws his head back and his eyes squeeze shut—Christ Jesus, Sam is big, and he’s never felt anything like this except for the occasional stellar blowjob where a barfly would do him the favor of slipping a finger back behind. Sam buries himself to the hilt and wraps a hand around his brother’s hip, and Dean’s hands are grabbing at the covers, digging for purchase until he finally pushes back, wanton and open.

“Christ, Dean, I knew you would feel incredible,” Sam moans, and with the words, he pulls out and slams back in, picking up a rough rhythm, unyielding, and Dean meets him with each of his thrusts. The only sounds in the room are hard grunts and the flat slap of skin against skin, and _fuck, Sam,_ and _fuck, Dean._ Sam reaches his hand up and grasps the slope of Dean’s shoulder where it meets his neck, and pushes hard, skating his cock over the spot that has Dean growling into the sheets, gasping and grunting. Under the flat of his hand, Sam can feel the pound of Dean’s pulse, ragged and galloping, pressing against the flesh.

“That’s right, Dean, take it.” Sam picks up his rhythm, and Dean turns his head to face his brother, whose lips are full and fucked out, whose eyes are blown black pupils except for the thinnest eclipse of gold around them. With a swift motion, Sam grabs Dean’s wrists and pushes his chest to the bed, lifting Dean’s hands behind his back. There’s art in the way Dean’s back curves against the loss of control. Wanton, Dean is keening, a lurid sort of prayer coming out of his lips, a litany of praises and want, a perverse hymn. 

Sam leans forward and wraps his right hand around Dean’s hard cock, twisting his wrist and teasing every last ounce of sensation he can from his brother’s dick, while still holding his wrists tight, tacitly demanding Dean’s body flex hard into the rhythm of his cock. Dean’s eyes flutter from open to closed, and every time Sam strikes that bundle of nerves, Dean’s lips pull back from his teeth and bare.

The rhythm of Sam’s hip against the hard curve of Dean’s ass grows uneven, the thrusts become unbalanced, and Sam’s large hand grips tight on Dean’s cock, stripping hard. Sam rolls his hips and matches the movement with his hand, grasping Dean and running his curled hand from root to tip on Dean’s dick. Dean bites his lower lip, savaging it rough and red against his brother’s hard thrusts, green eyes barely open with the feel of it all, white teeth a stark contrast against the cherry of his lip.

“Christ, Dean,” and there’s no need to say any more, because Dean is coming hard over Sam’s hand, and a handful of thrusts behind him, Sam is pumping his release, too, a hard grunt punctuating the way he stills, spilling inside his brother’s ass. There’s sweat coming off Sam’s brow as he leans over his brother, catching his breath before he slips out. He pulls Dean onto his side, and wraps his large arms around his brother’s body, toughened hands against Dean’s hunt-scarred skin. They lie still like that, Sam breathing in the musk at the base of his brother’s skull, existing in a world made of only the two of them. They fall asleep like that, curled into one another, boneless and fucked out, slick with sweat, a quiet peace about them for the first time in a very long while.

***

When Dean awakens, the room is quiet. Sam has vacated the bed, but his side is still messy from sleep, so he obviously hasn’t gone far. Dean sits up, and sees Sam reading at a table in the corner. He’s shirtless, but managed to drag on a pair of black sweatpants before getting wholly distracted by the book he’s reading. Engrossed, Sam flips the pages quickly, eyes skimming the lines with their typical startling speed. He’s been like that since he was a kid; Dean remembers when he and John would leave Sam at the library when he was too little to hunt, they would often return to find him among the stacks with piles of books around him, his small hands clutching them and his eyes flying across the pages. Sam’s far bigger now, stronger, but the need to learn has never left him.

Dean clears his throat quietly, and Sam looks up, smiles, puts his book down.

“You’re up,” he says, and stands to make his way to the bed. 

“Listen, Sam,” Dean begins, making a move to pull the covers off his body, but Sam puts his hand up, silencing and stilling him.

“I did a lot of thinking last night.” Sam’s tone is firm. “I know you’re reluctant to stay. But, I wanted to talk to you about an option you might prefer.”

Dean rolls his eyes, goes to protest; Sam raises his hand again, firm.

“I want you here as my king consort, you know that. But I know that that would never be enough to keep you here. I would also make you the commanding general of the army and you could continue hunting demons—it would just be the demons who betray Hell. They still abuse human bodies, they still sacrifice innocent people. But they also mutilate other demons and sabotage the military here in Hell. It’s the same bad guys, just a different location.” Sam takes a breath and levels his gaze at his older brother. “Being the commander would also make you the one person allowed to protect my throne, my crown, and me. You’re my brother, Dean. I can’t be away from you. But I cannot, in good faith, abandon my post here.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Sam makes his way to the edge of the bed next to Dean, sits there gently. Dean runs his fingers through his hair, and his lips purse. Sam watches his brother, recognizes the muscle movements in his face that mean he’s thinking, turning options over in his mind, examining them. This is the Dean he knew growing up, who, when John would tell them about a new creature, would sit quietly and study the things John had said, run them through his mind and soak them in. He watches Dean ruminate, watches his body as he does it. When Dean speaks, it’s soft.

“Sam, you’re asking a lot. What about Bobby? What about the Impala?”

Sam grins. “Dean, you’ll have full access to the regular world. As General, you will still hunt on Earth in the case of rogue demons. And the Impala will always be yours. Bobby can visit, though he might need to take time to get used to it all.”

Dean runs his hands over his forearms, then clasps his hands, and looks Sam in the eye, green to gold. There’s a smile there and there’s also a low undercurrent of hope in those mercurial eyes.

“I’ll stay, Sam.” He says it softly, eyes dropped. Sam leans in and places his hand on Dean’s jaw, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s full lips.

“You won’t regret it, Dean.” Dean turns his head into the kiss. Dean fists his hand in Sam’s hair, holding him closed and breathing him in. As Sam leans forward, Dean can feel the thickening length of Sam’s cock on his thigh.

“Sammy,” he says with an edge, just pulling away from the kiss, but he brings his hand to the hard length on Sam’s pants; Sam hisses in response. Dean’s cock is filling too, and he maneuvers the waistband of the sweatpants down Sam’s long legs and pulls the blankets back, exposing his naked body to the cool morning air. Sam nudges his face into the crook between Dean’s jaw and his shoulder, sucks and licks along the thin flesh of his neck, and Dean grabs his brother’s shoulders, digs his fingernails in to the hard muscle of Sam’s back.

Sam gets the message and straddles Dean’s hips, touching his cock to his brother’s so Dean can wrap a hand around them both, fisting their lengths together. There’s nothing but hard breaths and soft moans between them, sweat rising on their chests as Dean works them both expertly.

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam keens, and Dean brings his lips to his brother’s, bites at his bottom lip so Sam opens up to him, and it’s messy and hard and Sam moans through the kiss and it hums through Dean’s body like a current. His hand speeds up, working over the tender heads of their cocks and twisting just at the top like he’s always done when he’s alone, and he’s panting and so is Sam, and Sam’s eyes are so golden it’s painful, bright like jewels plucked from the ground and polished with want. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean’s voice is so fucked out it’s gravel and his wide palm is flexing over their dicks hard and desperate and needy and Sam chokes out a brutal sob of sound before he’s spilling over Dean’s hand and the sight sends Dean over the edge, his vision greying with the force of it and his body going tense like it never has before. 

They pant hard, sweat slicking their bodies and wetting their hair to their necks. Dean wipes his hand clean on the blankets, works to catch his breath, his eyes on his brother.

Sam breathes and leans in, gently touching his forehead to Dean’s, smiling.

“Welcome home, Dean.”


End file.
